I carried tomatoes called cherries
to a man I barely knew, though
intimately, briefly.
The cathedral’s bells were ringing.
A bride stood outside with her maids
in pastel colors. There was fussing
and flowers fresh of the season.
Owners of the icon shop across
the street pressed their faces
to the glass, eyes fixed. Someone
might have been working
a rosary. It was hot.
Winter seemed distant.
And this bed, and you.
He couldn’t quite believe
I had remembered to bring them
or kept my word. I said nothing
of what I had seen and left
quickly to travel narrow roads
edged by corn and capped
with blue sky.
Issue